


Of Many Names

by Zenaga



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenaga/pseuds/Zenaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows him by many names, but there's one of them that she simply does not utter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Many Names

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh I'm sorry this is late! The prompt was _The first time Sansa calls him "Petyr"_. Hope you like it, anon!

Her father had been away for more than a month, and Alayne was beginning to worry. He was due back soon, she knew, but the closer it got to his initial return date, the more worried that she became. More often than not, he was back sooner than he said he would be, and she had found that she much preferred that to him being gone for long periods of time. She had never expected that to be the case, but somehow the small man had wormed his way into her heart.

That particular night, she lay awake, Sweetrobin curled uncomfortably at her side, his small foot digging into her shin. She was so exhausted that she was nearly tempted to throw him out, but she knew that Father would not want her to give the boy any reason to pout, especially when their caretaker was away. Father… Alayne had known him by many names. When she had first met him, her auburn hair coiled into pretty little braids, he was Lord Baelish. To Eddard - her _real_ father - he was Littlefinger. Now, in a castle thousands of feet above the forest below, dyed brown locks tumbling over her shoulders and lies on her lips, she knows him as Father. She knew that his name was Petyr - he had reminded her of it often enough, and she had heard others address him as such, but she herself never uttered the name. She was sure that she had at one point, but she never spoke it of her own vocation. There was no need, after all. When she was Sansa, she had never called her father Eddard - why should Alayne’s father be any different?

Alayne was startled out of her musings by a whimper and a small hand clutching at her shift. When she turned to look at Sweetrobin, he was staring at her with his alarmingly large eyes. She involuntarily shivered. “I’m hungry,” he whimpered. She looked at him, both feeling sympathetic and annoyed.

“It’s the middle of the night, My Lord,” she said, running her hand across his hair. “You need to wait for breakfast.” He let out a whine at that, his lower lip protruding into a pout. Sometimes she had the urge to smack the boy silly.

“But I’m _hungry_!” he said again, more loudly this time, and Alayne shifted so that she was sitting up straight.

“Alright, alright,” she said with a sigh. “Would you like a cup of buttermilk?” she asked, and when she saw his brow furrowing, she continued, “Warmed? With honey?” Sweetrobin’s face lit up at that, and he nodded sleepily. “I’ll go get that for you then. I’ll be back soon.” With that, she slipped out of the warm cave of blankets, and out into the chill of her chambers. She never liked getting out of bed at the small hours of the night, but she had to do so often when Sweetrobin shared her bed. She slipped on her cloak, glancing at the child briefly before she hurried out of the room. The castle was dreadfully cold, as always, and with the hope of making her trip brief, Alayne kept a swift pace as she wound her way through the halls towards the kitchens. She was sure that the servant she intended to wake would not be pleased by her request, but although she was a bastard here, she was _Lord Baelish’s_ bastard. She knew that although she would be met with grumbles and hushed complaints, Sweetrobin would still get his buttermilk, and Alayne would hopefully get some sleep. She did not want to face the coming day without being well rested.

The halls were dark, cold, and rather creepy. She did not like that quality that they had, as it made her jumpy. At the fore of her mind, she reassured herself that no harm would meet her here, and that there were no ghosts lurking in the shadows. Her aunt was dead and gone, and her Father would keep her safe. _But Lord Baelish is not here, and you are alone._ The thought sent a chill down her spine, and she clutched the cloak tighter around her, feeling for the dagger that she kept hidden in it. Her hand met the cool handle, and she found that she could breathe more easily as her fingers curled around it. Coming to a staircase, her feet made a pitter-patter on the steps, echoing against the high ceilings.

As she descended, her steps slowed, and she felt her heart beat faster once more. She saw the glow of a torch against one of the walls, and the sounds of whispers echoing up the stairwell. She slowed to a stop, clutching the dagger more firmly as her mind raced with questions. The wall was lined with small alcoves, and she was tempted to slip silently into one of them, but she held her ground, determined to gain some knowledge of the possible intruders. She tried desperately to recognize the voices, but they were so quiet that the only thing she could determine was that they were speaking in the Common Tongue. As she listened, she quietly slipped down a few steps further, trying to peer around the bend as she moved along the wall.

Suddenly, an arm reached out and grabbed her, and before she had time to scream, another hand was over her mouth. She began to thrash as she was pulled into an alcove, against a warm body. She tried to pull the dagger from her cloak, but it was tangled in the fabric. At the moment that she gave a fierce tug that ripped the fabric as the dagger pulled free, she heard a familiar voice. “Shhh, don’t scream, sweetling. It’s only me.” As soon as those warm, whispered words entered her ear, she relaxed, filled with relief and a peculiar kind of delight. As her father released her, she whipped around, her dagger clattering to the floor as she threw her arms around him. She only held him for a moment before she pulled back, not wanting to seem untoward.

“Father, I-” she began in a hushed voice, but Petyr put his hand over her mouth again to silence her. The voices from down the stairwell quieted, and after a moment, she heard the strangers start to ascend the stairs. Petyr’s face was close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek, and her heart was pounding as she heard the approaching footsteps. _Who are those men?_ She wanted to ask, but she simply watched her father with wide eyes. She would have assumed that they were with him, but his secrecy unnerved her. Were they really intruders? The torch light flickered over their faces as the men passed, and she could see a wicked smile on her father’s face. They seemed to remain unnoticed, and the torch light dwindled until it vanished, the men gone. After another minute of agonizing silence, he uncovered her mouth and curled his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into another embrace. She relaxed into his arms, nuzzling the rough wool of his cloak. They stood like that for many moments before they pulled apart again, and she looked across at him. “I was worried that you weren’t coming back,” she said, more quietly than before. She could barely see him in the dark, but she thought she saw the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

“And leave you, my poor, sweet, beautiful daughter?” He chuckled quietly then. “How could I ever dream of doing such a thing?” Abruptly, he pulled her head towards his and placed his lips upon hers with the ferocity of a starved man. She let out a sound of a surprise against his mouth before she yielded her lips to his and curled her hands into cloak. She had been determined to keep the appearance of their father-daughter relationship when he returned, keeping their more scandalous relations to his chambers, but her resolve quickly vanished as he placed his other hand on the small of her back, his lips moving against hers. Her eyes fluttered shut as she moved her hands up his chest, up his neck, where they finally settled on either side of his jaw. He pulled away for a moment to breathe whispered words against her lips. “It’s been far too long, sweetling,” he said, his hand slipping down to her collarbone and into her shift. She felt a jolt in her stomach, and immediately began to pull back.

“Father, no, not here, there’s men around,” she whispered urgently, pushing away from him.

“Never mind them, sweetling. They’re mine,” he said, his hand coming to rest on her breast. “Come here, my sweet daughter.” She cared a great deal about the man, but it made her stomach churn unpleasantly when he referred to her as his daughter when he was treating her as a lover. “Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he pulled the ties of her shift open, exposing her chest to the cold air. Her nipples were hard against the chill, and she shivered again.

“Please Father, it’s too risky here,” she pleaded, although she was beginning to find the prospect of getting caught more arousing than frightening. Chuckling lightly, he leaned down and began to kiss his way down her neck, nibbling lightly on her collarbone as he kneaded her breast, his other hand cupping her hip. “Father, no, it’s no good here, we can’t - ah!” His mouth latched onto her nipple, and her hand gripped onto his hair tightly as she let out a quiet moan. As he sucked and nibbled, she leaned her head back, her hips thrust forward, keeping her lips shut tight as she tried to keep in the small noises that were threatening to spill past her lips. In final lucid thought, she placed her other hand around his neck and using his hair as leverage, she sharply pulled his head back, his mouth letting out a wet pop as it left her chest. _“Petyr,”_ she hissed, staring straight into his eyes. The cloud that was covering the moon slowly pulled away, and a tiny bit of light filtered into the room. She caught a glimpse of Petyr’s face and the surprised but pleased expression that he had. His eyes were dark with lust, but there was something else in his gaze. Something had shifted in him when she used his name. It was not earth-shattering by any means, but neither of them had expected it. It was something special. Shaking her head slightly, Alayne brought herself back to the present. “I was on my way to get Sweetrobin some buttermilk. I can’t be gone for too long,” she explained, and Petyr nodded and set himself to the task of retying her shift.

“Very well then,” he said, his voice surprisingly level. “Be quick about it then. I want to see you in my chambers as soon as you’re done.” Pulling the top tie into a pretty little bow, he gave her the sweetest smile she had ever seen on him. _“Sansa.”_ She felt a chill at the sound of her birth name slipping off of his tongue. She had grown so used to being Alayne that she sometimes forgot who she really was. She felt without power when they were Lord Baelish and his bastard, Alayne, but when they were Petyr and Sansa, she found that she felt safe, secure - something she had not felt for a long time. Leaning over, she gave him a small, chaste kiss. Before she slipped back out into the hall, she bent down and picked up her discarded dagger. She saw him look at her curiously, but she only gave him a small grin before she slipped out of the alcove, and continued her journey down to the kitchens.

 

 


End file.
